She stumbles with foolish grace, ducks a slash, puts her weight behind the sword in her right hand. Then the burly knight ahead is no longer smiling, but taking her arm and turning her, giving her a mighty shove - she's going to fall. Breath comes back into her lungs, clots of smoke and screams.
Now he's going, and now she’s following, and now he's falling and his blood’s on her face. The man with the hammer was just passing, giving her a lively little tap for a hello. Gets up, swipes mud and hair out of her eyes, looks around. She goes to her knees, and she's going to fall, but not yet. In fact, it's going to take the blow of the hammer headed for her back to even knock her free of the muck.
She's up to her ankles in it, rooted like a tree, couldn't be more stable. Not because of the dirt her boots have churned to bloody mud.
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